


The Time Is Now

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Lestrade POV, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, helping Lestrade relax, predatory sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8276783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: Lestrade is having a very strange evening.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joereaves](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=joereaves).



> Written for joereaves, who gave the prompt “you work too hard, Inspector”.
> 
> Originally posted to Livejournal in 2010.

Lestrade took the stairs at Sherlock's two at a time and glared around the living room, annoyed to find it unoccupied. He could go back to the office, back to the rest of his team and the impossible case waiting for a spark of genius, _Sherlock's_ spark of genius, to solve it. But...

...but the sofa was looking very inviting, and surely a five minute sit down before he went out again wouldn't hurt. He carefully lowered himself onto the sofa, and let his eyes fall shut. Only for a moment, he promised himself, just a brief recharge of his batteries.

* * * * *

The first thing Lestrade felt was the soft press of lips against his neck. He'd been having a very pleasant dream about a man with dark brown hair going down on him at his desk, so it took him longer than it really should have to realise that the touches sending heat to his belly were real, and not just an unfulfillable fantasy.

His eyes flicked open and he found himself staring into the face of John Watson. “Wh -?” he started to ask.

“You work too hard, Inspector,” John said. “Sherlock and I thought we should do something about it.”

“But...but the case...” Lestrade tried to say, around the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. “All I had to do was look at the victim's wrists to see that the sister did it.”

Lestrade blinked. He knew he really should feel annoyed that Sherlock could solve the case so easily, but then that is exactly why he came round in the first place. It doesn't really matter after that, his sleep addled mind insisting that words are no longer necessary, as John is kissing him, a surprisingly dirty kiss considering that Lestrade wouldn't have pegged him for a decent kisser. No, strike that, an _amazing_ kisser.

It doesn't take long for Lestrade to respond (it's certainly been a long time since anyone's kissed him like that) and he hadn't even realised that Sherlock has moved behind him and is swiftly undressing him until Sherlock's cold fingers are moving experimentally over his nipples.

Lestrade wants to say something, to react in some way. But he's _tired._ He has been for a long time, in fact. A weariness has settled in his bones that's getting harder and harder to shake. And much as he would like to, he can't blame it all on Sherlock. In fact Sherlock's help is often the only thing keeping him sane, which is a sign of the apocalypse if nothing else.

“Stop. Thinking,” Sherlock demands, and pushes Lestrade's jacket and shirt down his shoulders and half-way down his arms, effectively meaning that he can't move them to touch himself or John, who has, while Lestrade has been distracted, been undoing his belt and settling in between Lestrade's legs.

“You're supposed to be relaxing,” John says. Then he smiles and it's the very mirror of Sherlock's normal smile, all predatory intelligence too strong to be contained. “Though, not _that_ relaxed.”

Lestrade swallows but there are words he can't say bubbling under the surface. It isn't as if he hasn't thought about this moment, deep in the darkest recesses of his fantasies, the only spot he'd been sure of before now that Sherlock would never be able to reach. But if he's learned anything this evening, it's not to underestimate the team of Sherlock and John.

Lestrade moans as John's hands, finally, touch him. They're slick with something and Lestrade gives himself up to the touches then, knowing that they will have thought of everything. John's hands are firm and determined and he seems to know exactly what he’s doing. But then the beating of Lestrade's heart stops drowning out all other sound and he realises the noise he'd mistaken for his own breathing was that of Sherlock, carefully whispering instructions to John. It's enough to make him come, knowing that all of Sherlock's attention is on him, even if he can feel that the other man's eyes never leave John's face. It's enough to know that he's doing this, even if, as Lestrade suspects, it isn't really about him at all.

“You have always thought too loud,” Sherlock whispers into the shell of his ear as his body's aftershocks start to die down, “it's most distracting.”

And, if Lestrade weren't sure that he was already asleep, he would fervently believe that Sherlock just planted a kiss against the side of his head.

* * * * *

When Lestrade woke he was still on the sofa, fully dressed and with a blanket around him. The rest of the flat seemed quiet and Lestrade would almost have believed he had dreamed the whole thing. Except that he moved to sit up and dislodged several post-it notes which had been stuck to the blanket above his chest.

> **No, you weren't dreaming. Your imagination isn't that creative.**  
> 

Lestrade snorted.

> **Ignore him. He's just sore he didn't get off too.**  
>  _Not all of us are interested in fornicating like animals._  
>  **That's not what you said last night.**  
> 

Lestrade shook his head, both horribly amused and embarrassed. He wasn't sure he was ever going to be able to look the two of them in the eye again, though he had to admit, he did feel a lot less stressed than he normally did upon awakening.

Then he read the last post-it, and his relaxing mood started to wane, and became a different sort of feeling all together.

> **Next time, we use the bedroom.**

“Well,” Lestrade muttered under his breath, as he got up and started to pad towards Sherlock's room, “I suppose there's no time like the present.”

Sherlock and John were about to agree with him.


End file.
